361. Denise: a tribute

What can you say about a woman who makes Dalton look like this? Denise is in so many ways the beating heart of Road House, as possessed by a film that isn’t watching its cholesterol. She is beaten by Brad Wesley and mocked as a pet off her leash by Dalton. Yet she possesses an indomitable spirit: coming on to Dalton by directly expressing her desire for him, struggling against Jimmy when he pulls her away to load her into the goons’ monster truck, listening to her favorite music despite Wesley’s disapproval, dressing like someone who’s actually pretty cool, hanging out with her girlfriends, helping out Carrie Ann in a barfight, and draping her removed dress across the face of the number-one tough guy in town.

There’s a vibrant and vital story to be told about Denise after the death of Brad Wesley, too. I’ve already daydreamed about her somehow inheriting his estate and empire in his will, preferably by duping him into signing a document by lying and saying it was a Jazzercise permission slip or something. But even if she doesn’t come away with his house and his money and his trophies and his JC Penney, imagine a Denise who’s free to be friendly with Dalton and Doc and the rest of the gang—no Wesley, no Jimmy, no Ketchum, no goons to worry about at all. She can live her life the way she wants to now. True, she won’t have Wesley to presumably provide her with the good life, but what kind of life was that anyway? It was hardly “good” if you value your physical safety and feel you should be treated like a human being. Good riddance to bad rubbish, and long live Denise, Jasper’s unsung hero.

“His Dark Materials” thoughts, Season One, Episode Eight: “Betrayal”

Lyra Silvertongue and her friend Roger Parslow have been through a lot: being kidnapped, narrowly escaping a magical lobotomy, meddling in ice-bear politics, staying one step ahead of the ruthless Mrs. Coulter and her Magisterium goon squads. Now they’ve reached the mountaintop sanctuary of her father, Lord Asriel, whose experiments with the substance called Dust have marked him for death. Faced with all this trauma and turmoil, what do these two brave souls do?

They make a blanket fort.

Of all the beautiful, terrible things we see in His Dark Materials‘ season finale (titled “Betrayal” for reasons that will be apparent), this is moment that lingers the most. For all their courage, Lyra and Roger are still just kids. When they want to feel safe in this strange stronghold, they build a little fortress of their own, eating sandwiches while reminiscing about how their friendship has changed their lives.

And nothing drives home the horror of what happens afterward than the sight of Lyra frantically reentering the blanket fort at one end and emerging from the other side, alone. Roger is nowhere to be found.

I reviewed the season finale of His Dark Materials for Rolling Stone.

“Mr. Robot” Season Four, Episodes 12 & 13: “Series Finale Parts 1 & 2”

In a way we already said goodbye to “Mr. Robot,” or at least “Mr. Robot” as we knew it. The creator, writer and director Sam Esmail did not choose to end his series as a techno-thriller, or a deadly game of cat and mouse, or a science-fiction mind-bender, or a work of political agitprop. He — and his luminous cast, particularly Rami Malek and Carly Chaikin as Elliot and Darlene — ended it as an exploration of an alienated, mentally ill young man.

Elliot’s psychological coping mechanisms may have been … baroque, to say the least. But his underlying problems, from the childhood abuse to his fury at the condition of the world, are far from unique. Perhaps you share one, or both.

In the end, the most tantalizing fantasy “Mr. Robot” places before us isn’t a reckoning with the upper class or the creation of an alternate reality, it’s the possibility of reintegrating our shattered selves and healing the breaches caused by the people, and the system, that have hurt us. No, I’m not fully convinced by Elliot’s concluding declaration that standing our ground and refusing to change who we are is sufficient for changing the world for the better. I’m not even sure that it’s sufficient for changing our individual lives for the better.

But as another paranoid TV thriller once put it, I want to believe. And for making me want to believe, “Mr. Robot” has my thanks.

I reviewed the series finale of Mr. Robot for the New York Times. This show stayed true to itself, and even if it now feels slightly out of step with the times I think that’s commendable.

360. Oscar, or the path not taken

This handsome devil right here is Oscar. He owns the Bandstand, the New York nightclub where Dalton’s working at the beginning of the film. As such he serves as two separate object lessons. First, he provides us with a solid point of comparison for just how creepy Frank Tilghman looks in this opening scene. Take a look at the man above, then at the man below, and consider what it takes to make the man above look like the more pleasant alternative.

The second lesson pertains to something Dalton says moments before Oscar enters the room: “When the job’s done I walk.” He says this to Tilghman as a condition of taking the job at the Double Deuce; this is worth keeping in mind during the film’s final reel, as just up and walking away is not unheard of for Dalton and presumably for his mentor Wade Garrett too. The only issue is whether fixing up the Double Deuce but leaving Brad Wesley in control of Jasper constitutes the job being done. (I personally lean towards no, but then I’m not a cooler.)

Point is, you can look at the Bandstand—all that gold plastic, all those hundreds, no chickenwire around the stage—and deduce that, despite the fact that he was stabbed moments earlier, Dalton has finished the job. Certainly his bouncers are competent enough to help escort the knife nerd who cut Dalton outside and then just…prevent him from returning—an ideal bouncing maneuver according to Dalton’s Three Simple Rules. There’s nothing left for those men to learn from Dalton, ergo he can take Tilghman’s offer and split on the spot.

But there’s a world out there somewhere in the multiverse where Dalton continues to work at the Bandstand, fending off further attacks from the knife nerd. Perhaps he’s a low-level drug runner for one of the Five Families, and the mafia tries to move in on Oscar. Maybe Dalton winds up having to fight off various assassination attempts from hardened killers instead of Wesley’s goon squad. Maybe a horse’s head winds up in his bed. Dalton vs. the mafia is a movie I’d watch, and a prequel we deserve.

359. But he can’t be a man cuz he doesn’t smoke the same cigarettes as me

Before he pops in a cassette and listens to the tunes of his choosing on his way out of New York, Dalton’s radio is tuned in to 102.7, WNEW, the home of classic rock for a generation—a freeform rock station before “classic rock” even existed, back when “classic rock” was just rock—in New York. Scott Muni, Scottso, The Professor. Pete Fornatale. Carol Miller. That sort of shit. That’s the station I grew up listening to, via my father and then eventually on my own. For a while in the 1990s and early 2000s, I believe, it was a talk station, home of the shock jocks Opie & Anthony. Today I have no idea what it is.

But I cherish the idea that Dalton and I might both have listened to the same radio station at the same time. Why? Because how else am I going to connect with Dalton as a person, really? There’s the philosophy degree I suppose; I took a year of philosophy as an undergrad and remember it relatively fondly, though if asked me what I learned I probably couldn’t come up with much better than Dalton’s self-effacing “Man’s search for faith, that sort of shit.” But I’m not a dancer, I’m not a fighter, I’m certainly not a cooler let alone a bouncer, I don’t practice tai chi, I’ve never torn a man’s throat out, although I can think of one ex that was none too pleased I’ve never had sex with a woman while her ex actually watched, et cetera. The possibility that I listened to the same broadcast of “Roundabout” or “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes” or “Locomotive Breath” as James Dalton, the best damn cooler in the business? How could one ever put a price on something so precious?

358. Jimmy, Revisited

“I used to fuck guys like you in prison.” This much we know about Jimmy. Or do we? Picture growing up as Brad Wesley’s unacknowledged bastard son. Absent father, mother who doesn’t understand him. He starts hanging out with the wrong kind of kids, starts acting up, getting into trouble. A few scrapes with the law, a few misdemeanors, the specter of juvie on the horizon. Then it happens: he gets pinched for a big one, grand theft auto. He does time. And what happens to a handsome young man like Jimmy in prison? I don’t want to say it but I think we all know.

So. “I used to fuck guys like you in prison.” Is that a fact? Or is Jimmy identifying, in Dalton, the traits he grew to hate in himself, the traits he feels made him a victim, something he’s sworn he’ll never be again? The good looks, the great hair, the attitudinal softness, and most importantly the fact that he’s being beaten in this fight. He deserves what he’s gonna get, just like the old Jimmy deserved it, the Jimmy who existed before this new Jimmy emerged, harder and stronger and ready to dish out everything he’d been made to take.

357. Lap

Road House closes up shop for good and all with the title superimposed over Jeff Healey’s crotch. Oh sure, you can say it’s a shot of his hands, or his guitar, or his hands on the guitar, but facts are facts. That’s the words ROAD HOUSE and that’s Jeff Healey’s crotch. It would be foolish to deny it.

And yet it’s nothing more than a return to form. The opening title of Road House is superimposed over a woman’s ass. That’s a communicative detail same as this is. They’re an indication that this movie is primal, instinctive, biologically raw. It’s about fighting, fucking, or fleeing, depending on the person and the needs of the moment. It’s a film about butts and balls. If Road House were a body part it would be someone’s bathing suit area. It makes sense to end this way. Leave us on a high note, Road House.

356. Dip

I’m saying this in a voice that approximates that of Ash, the android—artificial person, excuse me—in Ridley Scott’s Alien when he says of the titular creature “I admire its purity”: I admire Road House‘s fecundity. Road House is a film deeply committed to giving and being more—more than you expect, more than it needs to be. It exists to run over the Ford dealerships of your mind with a monster truck, one in which it has balls big enough to come.

I can think of few clearer demonstrations of this than the way the film chooses to leave us with its protagonists, Dalton and Doc. How best to convey, as the film must, that they bridge their differences (perhaps with the corpse of Brad Wesley) and live happily ever after? Our friend Rowdy Herrington could have shown them dancing together at the Double Deuce, a choice that would have been all the easier to make given that the credits roll over, you guessed it, people dancing at the Double Deuce. That’s where Cody’s performing “When the Night Comes Falling from the Sky,” after all; couldn’t James and Elizabeth rock out into the sunset with him?

Ah, but they do! Our final image of our hero and his lover does indeed show them accompanied by Cody and his guitar. Only they’re not at the Double Deuce, they’re by the water outside of Emmet’s place. And Cody’s sitting on the grass, not on stage.

And they’re bare-ass naked.

Road House ends the story of Dalton by showing him skinny dipping with Dr. Elizabeth Clay. In fact it shows him running across the grass toward the water, cheeks to the wind, then doing a splendid high dive right into the water, at which point he and the good doctor make out, and make out enthusiastically. Like, you can imagine what’s going on beneath the surface of the water, that’s how enthusiastically. They’re young(ish) and in love and hanging out naked with their friend the blind white blues guitarist, and all is right with the world.

Always there is another trick up Road House‘s sleeve, always there is some new wonder to marvel at. This time it happens to be the main characters swimming around with their junk out with Jeff Healey in the background, and this time it happens to be the final chapter in the saga of Dalton, the best damn cooler in the business (as of that one morning when Brad Wesley flipped his coin and it came up tails). After all that death, after all those blows to the head, after determining whether a hobbyhorse has a wooden dick, after the three simple rules—love, wet and wriggling and real.

use, c

355. “When the Night Comes Falling from the Sky”

Road House ends to the tune of “When the Night Comes Falling from the Sky,” the Jeff Healey Band’s cover of a song from Bob Dylan’s 1985 album Empire Burlesque. As you might expect, Healey peels the song away from the sound of the Big 80s Arthur Baker–produced original and moves it comfortably back into the bar rock sound Dylan favored when playing the song live with Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers as his backup band. Healey’s version is a bit less hard-charging though. It takes you more slowly and steadily through the song, which exists in Dylan’s “talking about romance with the voice of a prophet of doom” mode. In point of fact its structure and sound are close enough to “All Along the Watchtower,” especially in Healey’s version, that Dylan could have wound up with one of a hideous “self-plagiarism” lawsuit, John Fogerty–style, if things had worked out differently than they did.

Fortunately that never happened, and we can consider the song on the merits. It’s a minor-key track, kind of a down note to end the movie on, especially so soon after the whole “a polar bear fell on me” thing. But it’s a smokin’ performance by Healey—and, more importantly, a fitting sendoff for the romance of Dalton and Doc, two people who are going to have to learn to accept one another for who they are if their relationship is to survive.

Dylan/Healey sing of returning from a journey of hundreds of miles at the end of a chase. They hint at past traumas, narrowly escaped disasters. They say they’ve got no easy answers and shouldn’t be expected to lie to make up for that. They talk of protecting someone, and of not asking one another to do something they’re not ready to do. They sing of finding one another “in the wasteland of your mind.” As a reflection on the final days of the film, the period that stretches from the fire at Red’s to the shootout in the trophy room, I think it displays the emotional stakes for our two lovers quite well. Can true love emerge from the tumult? We’ll find out…

354. Monkey see, monkey *LOWERS SHADES TO LOOK YOU DEAD IN THE EYE* do

When the time comes for Tinker to get with the program, to fish or cut bait, to shit or get off the pot, to come on in for the big win, he first looks around for inspiration. An eyeline match cut reveals what he’s looking at: a troop of stuffed monkeys, posed in the familiar “See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil” manner.

Only…only that’s not all, is it? There’s a fourth monkey, isn’t there? And what part of his body is this furry fellow covering? What evil is he intended to instruct us not to do?

The monkey’s covering his dick, that’s what I’m trying to point out here. He’s covering his monkey penis. See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil, and last but most definitely not least, Fuck No Evil.

Again, this is the very end of the film. This is energy with which Rowdy Herrington, director, wishes to leave us. Tinker looks at a monkey holding his dick and says “A polar bear fell on me” and two old codgers chuckle to themselves with a dead body on the floor nearby.

When I say things like “I could watch Road House a hundred times and still find new details I’d never noticed before,” this monkey is the kind of thing I’m talking about. This monkey, holding its monkey genitals.

353. It is to laugh

Pete Strodenmire and Red Webster can hardly contain their levity. And who could blame them? Tinker just said “A polar bear fell on me”! That’s objectively hilarious. Oh, sure, they just shot to death their nemesis of many years and are standing just feet away from his bullet-ridden corpse, one of five dead bodies currently festooning the property. And if they hadn’t opened fire, that man would likely have killed their friend Dalton, and quite possibly Dalton’s girlfriend and the dead man’s ex-wife Dr. Elizabeth Clay as well. And had that happened, it’s hard to imagine the blood-dimmed tide that would have swallowed Jasper, Missouri, as Brad Wesley used the fortune amassed from his commercial ventures to hire a new army of goons and seek vengeance on all those who aligned themselves against him. Pete and Red stood on a knife’s edge of carnage and did what needed to be done to prevent from tilting over into oblivion. This happened about ninety seconds ago. But now? Tinker said “A polar bear fell on me.” Ya gotta laugh!

352. “A polar bear fell on me.”

There’s one chink in the armor of Frank Tilghman’s “everyone murder Brad Wesley together and then lie about it” plan. And yes, I’m assuming it was his plant. He delivers the killshot. He drops the one-liner. When Emmet and Strodenmire and Red Webster all ask each other if they saw what happened, per the sheriff’s request, they fail to ask Tilghman too; they know, without being told, that the Double Deuce owner’s role in the downfall of Brad Wesley must go unspoken.

Who do they ask instead? Who gets the final “You see anything?” The fly in the ointment, the monkey in the wrench, the pain in the ass: Tinker.

Tinker is Brad Wesley’s sole surviving core goon. He is the only man in the Wesley organization present at his house on that day not to be brutally murdered by Dalton and his accomplices. No one knows better than he how the balance of power has shifted. No one knows better than he whose town this now is. Despite the fact that he came closer than any other goon to killing Dalton, way back in that fight in Tilghman’s office when he knifed the cooler’s side, Tinker is reconsidering his loyalties, and reconsidering them fast.

But he’s still been asked by Red Webster if he’d seen anything. Like Red and Emmet and Pete, he needs to say something to answer the question. The police want to know. What can he say that will allay the suspicions not just of the cops regarding his complicity, but of Dalton and the town worthies regarding his newfound allegiance to their cause? What are the magic words?

“A polar bear fell on me.”

That’s it. That’s his reply.

“A polar bear fell on me.”

That’s the final word on the death of Brad Wesley and the triumph of Dalton and his friends.

“A polar bear fell on me.”

That’s Tinker coming to terms with Dalton sparing him the fate of all his fellow goons by toppling a taxidermied animal on top of him.

“A polar bear fell on me.”

That’s…that’s…that’s the final line of dialogue in the film. That’s the note on which the filmmakers wish to leave us. That’s the last word, the summary statement. That’s “And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.” That’s Road House beating on, corpses against the current, borne ceaselessly into the JC Penney.

“A polar bear fell on me.”

Fin.

“His Dark Materials” thoughts, Season One, Episode Seven: “The Fight to the Death”

Something very strange happens when they finally meet Lord Asriel. When he sees Lyra, he pretty much flips out. “I did not send for you!” he shouts, seemingly on the verge of panic. Then he lays eyes on her little pal Roger, and his whole demeanor changes. “I am very pleased you came,” he says to the boy. He sounds like a spider who’s discovered a fresh fly in his web.

Lyra has escaped every enemy, survived every skirmish, journeyed to places of great danger and lived to tell the tale. (All this, and she helped overthrow the king of the ice bears to boot!) Now that the young woman can give her alethiometer to her father, as she believes she was chosen to do, her quest should be at an end. That’s how a traditional fantasy story would work, you know? But there’s something about Lord Asriel’s voice, and the look in his eyes, that hints at horror to come.

I reviewed this week’s episode of His Dark Materials for Rolling Stone.

“Mr. Robot” thoughts, Season Four, Episode Eleven: “411 eXit”

Yes, it finally happened. After years of speculation, “Mr. Robot” pulled back the curtain on its single biggest mystery. It activated the secret machine that Whiterose, the leader of the Dark Army hacker collective and the Deus Group secret society of 1 percenters, built beneath the nuclear power plant in Elliot’s home, Washington Township. It really is a device intended to access a parallel world, one brighter and better than our own. And if we’re to believe our eyes during the episode’s final scenes, it worked.

How? The show is playing that particular card close to its vest; all it reveals is that the machine requires so much energy that switching it on draws power away from the nuclear plant’s cooling system, causing a meltdown. Honestly, that’s all the information we need. After carefully walking us through several dozen elaborate hacking exploits over four seasons, the show has more than earned a little science-fiction hand waving where generating alternate realities is concerned.

This goes double when the buildup to the parallel-world revelation is so expertly crafted. Sam Esmail, the show’s creator and the writer and director of this episode, repeatedly presents us with some of the series’s most memorable — and bloody — imagery to date.

I reviewed this week’s big episode of Mr. Robot for the New York Times.

“Watchmen” thoughts, Season One, Episode Nine: “See How They Fly”

Anyway, there’s some perfunctory “and the moral of the story is…” stuff about masks—Ozymandias says they “make men cruel,” Hooded Justice says “you can’t heal with a mask” because “wounds need air”—the sum total meaning of which you can grasp in about the time it took you to read this sentence. It seems to me that in an episode that featured, again, Angela Abar breaking someone’s fingers one by one for information, you should probably have shown how vigilantism and unaccountable law enforcement are bad rather than just told us. It would have made it easier to believe the show meant what it was saying.

As it stands, I’m not really sure what the show means. Not that meaning is the be-all and end-all of visual narrative—like I said a few episodes ago, this is a drama, not a thinkpiece. If you were to treat all of this as an essay rather than serialized television, you’d miss how much dizzying fun Damon Lindelof’s brand of blow-to-the-head surrealism can be, or how good Regina King and Jeremy Irons and Jean Smart and Tim Blake Nelson and Louis Gossett Jr. and Yahya Abdul-Mateen II and Tom Mison and Sara Vickers and Don Johnson and Hong Chau were in their roles. (Seriously, that is a murderers’ row of individually vivid performances, whatever you think about the show they were in.)

But seriously, what do we have here that we didn’t have before? Watchmen the original article had a lot to say about America, the Cold War, vigilantism, the right, the superhero genre, and the comics art form. Other than opening with the Tulsa Race Massacre—a big point in its favor—did Watchmen the TV show comment on politics in general or its own medium in particular with anything approaching Moore & Gibbons’s innovation, vision, and purpose? The puzzle pieces all fit, but what kind of picture are we looking at? I’ll give you a little time to think it over. Tick tock, tick tock.

I reviewed the finale of Watchmen for Decider. I feel like in the end it was a bunch of beautiful humbug.

351. The local constabulary, or “I didn’t see nothing”

“He’s got the sheriff and the whole police department in his pocket!” This brief statement by Red Webster, the day after Brad Wesley blew up his place of business, is pretty much the only word we hear regarding law enforcement in the town of Jasper, Missouri. No big news here: cops love rich authoritarians, film at eleven. But this isn’t even the Frank Wilhoit statement regarding conservatism, that “There must be in-groups whom the law protects but does not bind, alongside out-groups whom the law binds but does not protect,” in action. In Jasper, there is no one whom the law either protects or binds. It’s fucking Mad Max out there. This is how a jumped-up bouncer and a mall developer can go at each other in roving gangs for weeks without anyone lifting a finger to stop them.

But apparently word has reached the sheriff and his deputies that their patron is in trouble—big trouble this time, the kind of trouble that goons can’t be relied upon to stop. Again, how news of a five-minute fracas in a mansion can spread across town so quickly that half a dozen outsiders can get there in time for the climax is beyond me. But there they are, and they want to know where “Brad” is (when I said Elizabeth is the only person in the film to call him “Brad,” I neglected his pet cop) and what the hell happened here.

What follows either exposes a gaping hole in American jurisprudence or explains why the cops have been so superfluous in this movie. One after another, the people who just murdered Brad Wesley—and who’ve given their guns to Red Webster to hide, which takes him all of about ten seconds if you’re wondering how hard he worked to do so—simply say that they didn’t see anything.

With no eyewitnesses, how could the sheriff possibly hope to bring charges against the five men standing around a bullet-ridden corpse in said corpse’s own basement? Need I remind you? No one saw anything! And if they say they didn’t see anything, well, stop the investigation right there and file this one under “unsolved mysteries.” Forget it, Sheriff. It’s Jaspertown.

350. Dead Brad

Here lies Brad Wesley.

Some thoughts:

  • “Look how they massacred my boy.”
  • The way the ruins of the coffee table frame his body, like a portrait in a picture frame, reminds me of his exchange with Dalton over the picture of his grandfather: “Looks like an important man.” “He was an asshole.” The apple doesn’t die far from the tree.
  • I don’t think we’ve adequately discussed how willfully bizarre it is to have this little living-room set right in the middle of dozens, possibly hundreds, of stuffed and mounted animals killed on safari. Can you imagine coming over to Wesley’s house for, I don’t know, a Christmas party or a football game, and he invites you to sit amid the carcasses and make merry with him? “I see you’ve found my trophy room. The only thing that’s missing…is your ass…on my sofa! Have a seat, make yourself at home. You want anything? Have a bloody mary? Some breakfast? At least let me get you some coffee. Oh, that? That’s a water buffalo I shot to death. Milk and sugar? You take it black?”
  • The good news is that the blood should come right off of that naugahyde.
  • Next to Wesley’s right leg you can see one of the magazines he had on his coffee table before he was shot four times and sent flying through it. I can’t stop thinking about it. Did he while away an afternoon flipping through it earlier that week, not knowing it would one day soon rest beneath his corpse? Or was it just for show, or for company? Do you think Brad Wesley was much of a reader?
  • Ben Gazzara was a hell of a sport, getting wired with that many squibs. If they’d gone off all at once he’d have exploded like a smashed watermelon.
  • The question of Brad Wesley’s will was not one I’d entertained until this very moment. With most of his close associates, including his sister-son Pat McGurn and his bastard son (never officially acknowledged or legitimated) Jimmy Reno, dead, who would his worldly belongings and fortune go to? Could his “Jasper Improvement Society” protection racket now become a legit fund for civic development?
  • His battered girlfriend Denise deserves the money, that much I can say. In my mind I’ve written a happy ending for her where she tricked the old bastard into signing a document leaving everything to her without reading it over, like she said it was a release form for her Jazzercise class or something, and she gets to take over his mansion and his money and his interest in the 7-Eleven and live happily ever after. The dead animals would be the first things to go.
  • Goodbye, Brad Wesley. You were a truly demented person and a one-in-a-million movie villain. I’ll miss you, and I hope they have JC Penneys in hell.

349. “This is our town, and don’t you forget it.”

Red Webster, Emmett, Pete Strodenmire, and Frank Tilghman have had enough of Brad Wesley. I mean, to put it mildly. Together they shoot him to death, though not before Tilghman turns Wesley’s “This is my town—don’t you forget it” back at him. The two men exchange a sort of slight smile after that. It’s the smile of men with secrets, if you ask me, though it would pass for an expression of resignation on one hand and triumph on the other to the layman.

Be that as it may.

The thing that strikes me about Brad Wesley’s death today is how quickly it follows the murder of his goons. The bodies of Morgan, O’Connor, Ketchum, and Pat McGurn are still warm, and Jimmy is probably just a few miles downstream, and blam blam blam blam, no more Brad Wesley. They were the iron fist with which Wesley ruled Jasper, from JC Penney to shining Fotomat. Take them away and the man is revealed as a paper tiger, albeit one capable of nearly murdering the best damn cooler in the business.

To put it another way, Brad Wesley fell when his goon squad was supplanted with another. Had Red, Emmet, Pete, and Tilghman joined forces earlier, perhaps they could have out-muscled Wesley’s muscle, or at the very least outgunned them. All they lacked was a fighting spirit, and Dalton gave that to them. It already was their town. All they had to do was rise up and claim it.

348. Death and the Doctor

It’s hard to describe the cocktail of conflicting emotions Dr. Elizabeth Clay must be experiencing in this moment—the moment when her uncle, Red Webster, shoots her ex-husband, Brad Wesley, to save the life of her boyfriend, James Dalton. Just re-read that sentence and imagine yourself in your shoes. Here’s the kindly old man who raised you, and whom you moved back to Jasper after leaving the place so you could take care of him in his old age. He’s got a gun, and he’s just used it to shoot the man who—this is conjecture, but justified conjecture—you used to love, until you saw his ugly side. I’d imagine, given what we see of his treatment of Denise, that physical abuse was involved, since I doubt Denise was his first victim and since it would explain why the Doc skipped town instead of merely divorcing him. This man, with whom you once envisioned your future, has used your appearance on the scene to pull a gun with which he intends to shoot your current love interest. Only he’s not quite your current love interest at the moment, is he? The night before you watched him murder a man, tearing his throat out with his bare hands. Earlier today he tried to physically drag you out of town with him before you broke free and told him you had no intention of going anywhere with him. You’ve arrived just in time to watch him decide not to repeat this act, this time tearing the throat out of your ex-husband. Maybe you felt relief in that moment, but only briefly. Brad ruined it by pulling that gun, and Uncle Red ruined it by firing his. Three of the most important men in your life, locked in a dance of death.

And of course, it’s not over yet, no matter what Brad said. Three more men will put bullets in his body before he finally collapses through a glass table and dies. They include your boyfriend’s nominal boss—the reason this feud started—and his nominal landlord—who provided him with the place where you and he first made love. They also include a Ford dealer whose dealership you watched Brad Wesley demolish. Afterwards you and he had a talk, during which you attempted to appeal to the better angels of his nature, to no avail. The last thing he said to you was a threat against your boyfriend, right there near the rubble of Strodenmire Ford. The last thing he’ll ever say to you was that threat against your boyfriend, thanks in part to Strodenmire, who is participating in Brad’s murder before your very eyes.

And you abhor violence, don’t forget that. You’ve mocked Dalton’s tough-guy posturing to his face, on your first date no less. You broke up with him, kind of, because of the murder he committed last night. So you’re watching your own worst nightmare play out, again, involving men you’ve cared deeply about.

If you were Dr. Elizabeth Clay, could you ever recover?

347. “It’s over!”

Oh Brad, when will you learn. In the time it takes for Wesley to grab his fallen gun and turn it on Dalton while Dalton is distracted by Dr. Elizabeth Clay’s arrival, Doc has the chance to scream “No!” and Wesley himself gilds the lily by shouting “It’s over!” Which it is, but not in the way he intends.

It’s over because Red Webster, Dr. Elizabeth Clay’s uncle, has mortally wounded her ex-husband in order to save her (ex?-)boyfriend. That’s one more thing Wesley allows to happen because he’s too busy bantering to pull the goddamn trigger. It’s one thing to be chatty when you’re roughing up one of your own hapless employees; O’Connor isn’t going to put up a fight while you call him a messy bleeder, and none of your other goons is going to come to his aid.

But Dalton is a different story—a story of kindness, of friendship, of being the best damn cooler in the business. He’s made friends in this town. And though perhaps Brad Wesley can be forgiven for not expecting five of them to suddenly materialize in his basement, four of them carrying shooting irons, why take a chance?